


You Can Drive All Night

by EmitTime



Category: Baby Driver (2017)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Doc is a greedy bastard but cares about Baby in his own selfish way, Forced Prostitution, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Underage, Rape Aftermath, Tinnitus, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 22:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12443019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmitTime/pseuds/EmitTime
Summary: Ever the opportunist, Doc whores Baby out in between heists. There are consequences to him having trained Baby not to say 'no'.





	You Can Drive All Night

**Author's Note:**

> I'm supposed to be studying biochemistry but instead, I'm typing Baby Driver trash directly into the text box. Title and italic lyrics are from "Cigarette Daydreams" by Cage the Elephant.  
> In his monologue, Doc sometimes refers to Baby as a boy or a kid, but Baby is not underage in this fic.

.x.x.x.

 

_Close your eyes, so afraid_

_Hide behind that baby face_

 

.x.x.x.

 

Baby never calls unless he's in trouble, so Doc knew something had gone south as soon as his phone had begun to ring, screen flashing with the number of the latest phone he'd given his best driver.

A familiar, cold numbness settled in his gut as he accepted the call.

Baby was doing his other kind of job tonight, so if he was in trouble, then there'd been a problem with the men Doc had asked him to service.

 

"Baby?" He questioned in a low tone, blank expression twisting into something grim as harsh, panicked pants and whimpers flooded through the other line.

"I--I..." Baby stuttered, voice more guttural than usual, as though his throat was wrecked, and his lips were so close to the receiver that Doc could every shuddering intake of breath and staticky, erratic exhale. "I need you."

Doc shut his eyes, much preferring to hear those words in a different context from the young man. He should've known he hadn't set Baby up for an easy night; those men had offered too much cash to be looking for harmless, vanilla sex.

Baby's still trying to get words out, sounding more wrecked than Doc's heard him in years. This is bad.

"They took away my music, and I can't--I can't, it _hurts_ \--" 

"I know, Baby." Doc was careful not to raise his voice, rage simmering beneath the surface of his collected tone. "Are you still in the room?"

He received a few more whimpers, one that sounded enough like "yeah". And then something that chilled Doc to the core and had him seeing redder than Buddy when someone disrespected Darling.

"I don't think I can walk right now."

 

Doc had grabbed his car keys and pistol before Baby had finished whispering the admission, his shameful tone ringing in the older man's ears.

 

He tells Baby to stay on the line, turning the radio on as soon as he's in his car and cranking it up to Baby's favorite station, which is one of his pre-sets on account of how often Baby rides in his car.

Several hours ago, Baby had been sitting right next to him, expression listless and body language tense yet compliant as he stared straight ahead, music blaring out of his earbuds while Doc drove him to that fucking hotel room.

 

Doc doesn't know whether to be more disappointed in himself or the men who'd appealed to his greed.

 

.x.x.x.

 

Baby's phone had lost connection about fifteen minutes before Doc arrived at the hotel, a seedy, anything-goes dump. He'd tried to get more details out of Baby regarding what had happened, but the young man was a mess, half-incoherent and too stressed to answer properly. Doc had stopped trying after a shouted question over the blaring car music had been answered by a raspy sob. 

He couldn't seem to stop failing his good luck charm tonight.

No one batted an eye at him as he stormed up the stairs and broke the lock with the butt of his pistol.

 

The room indicated signs of a struggle, rumpled sheets dotted with blood, the hotel tv tilted with the screen cracked as if someone had been slammed against it, Baby's iPod lying shattered against the wall, earbuds tangled and crushed, probably beneath the weight of someone's foot.

 

Baby is lying in a fetal position on the filthy carpet, still naked, his back pressed against the radiator, trembling hands cupped over his ears. He's mumbling to himself, _humming_ , something that Doc has heard from him before when he's particularly stressed. He recognizes the familiar words, _easy like Sunday morning_. The phone is lying next to his head, screen black, most likely out of power.

 

Baby looks painfully young, and Doc's blood boils when he catches the tell-tale shades of newly-forming bruises under the shitty hotel lighting. He sinks to his knees in front of his driver, uncaring about the filth that's bound to ruin his suit. Baby's already been ruined by the filth, and that seems much more severe.

The young man starts at the shadow looming over him, banging the back of his head against the radiator with a wince, and Doc can tell by the way Baby scrunches his eyes shut that it's just made the ringing that much worse.

"Hey, it's just me. You'll be okay now, Baby," he sounds softer than he intended but succeeds in soothing his favorite, cupping the back of Baby's sore head, fingertips finding familiar purchase in the boy's short locks.

"Doc," Baby's looking at him like he's his savior for once, rather than a demon holding his chains. Again, Doc wishes he could have this under different circumstances, wishes he'd taken Baby back to his own bed, cash be damned, and heard his pants and sobs in sweeter tones.

 

But there's nothing to romanticize about Baby's wrecked state; from his swollen, split lip to the black eye that's surely forming, the too-deep teeth marks at his shoulder that have drawn blood, skin red and purple around the wound. Baby is shaking like he's expecting to be hit again, or worse, and Doc feels something in his chest tighten as he watches the young man try to sit up. He lends steadying hands to the process, keeping Baby from moving too abruptly as the battered driver grits his teeth and tries to hold back groans of pain. Doc's expression darkens as he takes in the trend of marks trailing down the boy's front, more bites, scratches, and bruises, and between his legs, a sickeningly dark red, dried to his thighs and mixed with pearlescent rivulets of the bastards' release. He's obviously got internal damage, at least tears around his entrance, and it's going to be a long night of further humiliation as soon as Doc can call a medic who can be trusted to keep their mouth shut.

He's not about to leave Baby alone with anyone, regardless.

 

"Sorry," Baby startles him by gasping, and his pulse flutters when Doc rests a hand on the side of his neck, palm achingly gentle against the finger-shaped bruises there. "Sorry," he pleads again, ducking his head down, fingertips of one hand tapping out a frantic melody on his opposite wrist, and Doc realizes that Baby interprets his rage and dismay at being directed towards _him_. "I don't--the money..."

"Baby, hush," Doc tries to cut him off; he doesn't want to hear this right now, just wants to get Baby bundled up in his coat and drive the hell out of here. He's got him to take care of and two deadbeats to kill, slowly and torturously, before the night is over.

The kid shrinks away from him, flinching when Doc tries to grab him and haul him up, shoulders hunched and arms folded around his middle, curling into himself again. His eyes are wide and he refuses to meet Doc's gaze, caught up in his shock and shame, his accent bleeding into his voice more than usual. "I tried to--we fought, they wouldn't listen. They didn't--they didn't want to pay, and then they got rough. 'M sorry. Know you don't like it when I'm too sore to be any more use."

 

This time, Doc can't hold back the pained noise that escapes his own throat.

"Oh, Baby," the words are soft for his boy, but his eyes are hard as he gently gathers the boy to his chest, taking care not to press on sore spots, his palm possessive and protective atop the driver's head as Baby finally gives in, wrapping shaky arms around his torso and collapsing against his chest, hitching breaths muffled in Doc's shirt as he clings to the lesser of the night's evils. "None of that, alright? You did all you could do." He drops his chain to rest on soft, mussed brown locks, plotting gruesome details even as he presses his lips to the young man's head, sealing the vengeance to come. "And they _will_ pay, I promise you that."

 

.x.x.x.

 

They're quiet on the route back to Doc's house, Baby seeming to calm more as the radio and exhaustion lull him into a post-adrenaline haze. He stares ahead the entire time, eyes following the dimly lit track of the road, and Doc tries not to think about how he'd be feeling right now if it had been worse -- if he were driving Baby back as a corpse in the trunk, rather than a roughed-up passenger. There can't be a next time; not like this.

 

Doc half-guides, half-carries him into the house, speaking in low tones the whole while, giving Baby constant sounds to focus on, reassurances between-the-lines that Doc isn't angry at him, isn't going to abandon him for this perceived failure.

 

"I'll do however many drives you want," Baby is still acting like he has to negotiate his own personal safety, and Doc can't fault him. That's exactly what he's trained the boy to do. "Just don't make me do that again." He stares up at Doc imploringly, desperately, as the older man patches up his face in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet seat lid while the crime boss gingerly dabs the blood away from his lip.

 

His fist tightens against the bloodied wad of cotton in his hand; Baby is going to fucking break his hardened, dysfunctional heart by the time he leaves this house.

"Never again," he promises, cupping the boy's less-bruised cheek, and when Baby turns his head to hide his face in Doc's palm, lips brushing against his skin in an accidental kiss, Doc feels a nauseating rush of affection that even he realizes is disgusting, considering what's he's put this kid through.

 

.x.x.x.

 

Baby is sent home with a brand new iPod and several pairs of earbuds, and the next time Doc is asked for his services, he firmly replies that it's no longer an option. He makes sure no one on the team knows what happened to the kid that night, unwilling to give anyone more reason to harass their youngest asset. He even gives Baby a break himself, calling not to ask him for favors but to check up on him every other day. Baby never says much, but over time, his flinches lessen and that haunted look diminishes, buried somewhere within him where he keeps all his other traumas stuffed down and drowned out by his music.

It's a long time before Baby calls him again of his own volition, but Doc can live with that, knowing that the silence means his boy is not in trouble.

And whenever one calls, the other answers.

 

_ End _

 


End file.
